Don't Abandon the Wingmen!

...everyone knows about wingmen.  The concept of hitting the town with a good wingman at your side is as ubiquitous and pervasive as ordering a lime in your Corona.  It is the only way to do things.  Why, then, when my friend JK and I went out full force to the bars of the LES this weekend, did it seem like the wingman technique was as "out" as crop tops and slouch socks? 

First, we patronized Spitzer's Corner, which held a promising mix of young professionals and...well...young professionals.  We were each approached by gentlemen appreciating our respective...intellects.  Not one of these guys brought along a friend.  I suppose I can appreciate the bravado, but the result?  Not only did they come off as "creepy" without a bona fide buddy to verify their ability to socialize normally, but they isolated JK and I, forcing one of us to stare awkwardly around the bar while they monopolized the other.  HUGE mistake.  There is no better way to get a girl to stop talking to you than to hang her friend out to dry -- bros before hos works in reverse for us, stupid.  As if the solo rider technique wasn't an obvious disaster in and of itself, eventually, friends of these guys did appear on the scene and verify (to some degree) that the creepers weren't in fact creeping.  But, it was too late for them, by that point.  They had been rejected out of hand based on the evidence available upon and immediately following their approach.  Badly done, boys.  This all left JK and I to question -- what were they thinking??  Why abandon a time-tested technique for picking up chicks?

Note the British sailor still dancing the night away at 4 a.m.

We continued to wonder this as we made out way through the next two bars.  And, as time went on, began to lose faith that the American male population still had any of that...what was it called...left?  Oh -- game.  Our skepticism was checked at the door however, when, after wandering down the street from Nurse Betty's in search of an open cab, be saw the beautiful little face of a guy we had been admiring only minutes earlier peeking out of an approaching cab.  As fate would have it, a red light slowed traffic enough that flirting ensued, and before we knew it, we were accepting (with obvious enthusiasm for more reasons than one) his invitation to share the cab with he and his friend.  Where were we going?  Who cared?!?  What followed was nothing less than the most graceful execution of the wingman technique I have ever witnessed.  An outside observer might have had the presence of mind to wonder if these two gents were practicing telepathy, their divide and conquer technique was so well coordinated.  It is a good thing that we didn't care where where we were going, because we ended up at Marquee, which is a pretty ghetto club in every sense of the word.  But for the next two hours, these two guys kept JK and I completely enthralled and occupied, dancing the wingman ballet with precision and skill.  Well done, boys.  Well done.  Is it possible that we were wrong about American men?  That Spitzer's corner was just an unfortunate anomaly?  To what do we owe this complete reversal of fortunes, we wondered?  The answer:   They were Australian.

Shame about the American men, but a good time was had in the end.  The bars we landed in were actually pretty decent for the most part.  Any negativity I felt towards them was probably the result of poorly executed interactions there.  So, take it with a grain of salt and know that most of these places were just what they were supposed to be.  And, of course, everything seems better when sprinkled with an Australian accent, so...

Spitzer's Corner
Rivington at Ludlow
Named for the famous canoodling politician, Spitzer's lives up to its name.  There were so many superfluous rules meant to screw you out of cash (i.e. no credit cards for orders under $25).  Pretentious beers, long mingle-why-don't-you tables, and crowds crowds crowds.  Not bad if you want to go with a group, but apparently going to flirt will net you a weirdo or two.  Some of them were not ugly.

The Back Room
Norfolk between Rivington and Delancey
This much-talked about bar has a "hidden" entrance (marked by a big bouncer) that requires a venture down a dark stairwell to a dark alleyway into the darkest bar I've ever been in.  Cocktails out of teacups and beer bottles in paper bags.  Maybe it was just group event night, but it all seemed little anti social there.  Bottom line: overrated.




Marquee
289 10th Ave. between 26th and 27th
Now, the night was no longer young when we wandered into this place.  Thankfully, we were on the list and had cover tickets.  I would say this place is definitely not worth standing in line for.  In typical clubby club fashion, there were upper and lower dance areas with couches and tables (for the bottle service customers and make-out sessions).  Lots of gyrating lights and overweight d-bags jumping on the furniture.  Might not be bad if you're just in the mood for strong drinks and Jersey-shore style dancing.  Which we all sometimes are.  But, this is definitely the kind of place people are talking about when they say they've outgrown the bar scene.


Bar Boulud
1900 Broadway between 63rd and 64th

After a thoroughly exhausting Friday night, JK and I spent Saturday strolling around the UWS and the Park.  We took a nice break here before continuing on to do a little shopping at Lincoln Center.  The food was amaaaaazing.  From the cheese plate (with a Camembert that tasted like butter) to the scallops to the macarons, this place had us "mmmmm"ing for hours.  Plus the cold white wine on a warm day, sitting outside while the world walked by was magical.  Keeping this place in mind for a little romantic dinner-date later on, I do believe...